Touch
by whitchry9
Summary: A fill for this prompt: Sherlock generally avoids touching people because when he does he can see flashes of that person's future. Most of the time it is quite short term things like what people will say next. However no matter what he sees he cannot alter the future, he knows because he has tried before. Four parts. Angst abound.
1. Chapter 1

**Prompt: Sherlock generally avoids touching people because when he does he can see flashes of that person's future. Most of the time it is quite short term things like what people will say next. However no matter what he sees he cannot alter the future, he knows because he has tried before. **

* * *

The worst thing he could have ever done was shake John Watson's hand.

Most of the time it was tiny, miniscule things that were unimportant, like the sentence they would say next, or what they planned to eat for lunch. Sometimes, if they were incredibly organized, it would be what they were going to wear the next day, or their plans for the weekend.

But when he touched John's hand, his future was laid out in front of him. And that was something Sherlock didn't ever want to have to see.

* * *

He knew from experience, that once he saw something, it happened. He could not change it, no matter how hard he tried. He didn't know if that was because he'd seen it that it had to happen, or if it was just meant to be. It wasn't like he could test with control groups, because human behaviour was anything but predictable. And the only way he could know what was to happen was to see it, which ruined the whole point.

So whether it was the act of seeing what was to be that fixed it, or whether fate ruled the universe, Sherlock could not determine.

He favoured the former idea, not overly fond of the concept of no free will, that everything was going to happen any way, no matter what he did.

He didn't like the idea of being controlled.

So he stuck with the concept that by seeing it, he made it happen, and avoided skin contact whenever possible, wearing gloves, acting aloof, and generally having no friends.

It gave him an air of being antisocial and cold, but honestly, he preferred that to what he could have been, a bearer of deaths and heartache, one moment at a time.

* * *

When he shook John Watson's hand, against his better judgement, he could see everything.

Not in depth, because he let go of John's hand like he was burning him, but he saw the vague outline of the path he would take. Saw the twists and turns his life would take, like looking over a board game before starting.

He only saw the next little bit in detail, John moving into Sherlock's flat with him, a chase, a cabbie.

A death. (There always seemed to be a death. At least this time, he hoped it would be somewhat deserved.)

So he set the wheels in motion that needed to be rolling, and took off, his heart racing at the danger of what this man could mean.

And what Sherlock's connection with him might cause.


	2. Chapter 2

The next night played out just like it should have, details appearing that Sherlock hadn't taken the time to see, or perhaps didn't exist at the time he'd seen it. He often wondered about those small things, the tiny details that seemed inconsequential. He wasn't sure if he didn't notice them because of the time constraints related to touching, or because they weren't fully defined yet, like slots not yet rung down.

Another mystery he couldn't solve.

The evening ended with a death, and Sherlock was not fazed by it, the man being a dying serial killer.

He avoided touching John, uneasy of what the slightest contact could bring.

Sometimes, it was better not to know.

* * *

They managed that way for a while, Sherlock avoiding John's touch, whether it was for something as simple as taking his temperature when John thought he looked peaky, to something as complex as requiring assistance with an experiment.

Sherlock declined, even though something things exploded and John became unhappy. Sherlock figured it was a small price to pay for free will. Or whatever.

* * *

Sometimes he couldn't avoid it, like the incident with The Woman, when he was drugged and lying on the floor. John must have carried him, but he was unconscious for a good part of that, and didn't see anything. But before and after (when John picked him up off the floor again) Sherlock didn't have as much control, and things seeped through. Things about The Woman, about a Christmas ruined by bodies and not faces and sock indexes.

He was glad when the drug wore off, and John no longer had cause to touch him.

But stupid him, he'd forgotten that what he saw could be misleading, because she wasn't dead at all, just pretending to be. He could only see what John saw, not the truth.

And he took her pulse, which he did do, because it was helpful, but that wasn't all. He saw what she saw in the future, him cracking the code, handing the phone over to Mycroft, whispering in her ear.

_I took your pulse, _he told her. Which was true.

But not the whole truth.

* * *

Sherlock tried to keep his distance even more after that, especially from John. Knowing what was to be _hurt. _And if he didn't know, he couldn't beat himself up over not being able to change it.


	3. Chapter 3

But then there was Moriarty, and circumstances had changed. Sherlock no longer had the option of being blissfully ignorant. And even though he tried, with the trial, and the cases, and the letting himself get arrested, it still didn't work.

* * *

"_Take my hand," _that had been his big mistake. But what else could he have done, handcuffed together and running for their lives. (Perhaps a slight exaggeration.)

And even with the level of concentration he'd managed, it was still too much, and Sherlock was bombarded with unwanted images from John's future.

Awful, _awful, _images.

* * *

_John was shot, sniper carefully positioned near the hospital, got off a clean shot, but John had started running. It wasn't perfect, didn't kill him. Didn't even leave him in a coma or a vegetative state that would have been kinder. No, he was just damaged, had to learn everything over again, walking, talking. Still managed to get a girl despite being unable to speak to her, one of his therapists in the hospital. They'd marry, but John wouldn't walk down the aisle. They'd have a son, but he wouldn't be named Hamish, because the thought of it hurt too much. They would be happy, on the surface anyway, but Sherlock could feel that John was still broken. Still broken because his best friend, one of his only friends, had let him get shot in the fucking head and then just completely vanished, not dead, but not alive anymore. Broken because a certain government official denied Sherlock's very existence and refused to speak to him. Sherlock saw that when Mary died eight years later, John completely crumpled, unable to hold himself together anymore. He'd stick a gun in his mouth to finish the job off and-_

* * *

He wished he could shove John away, just to stop seeing it. So many awful images. Ones he wished he could erase from his mind, but knew even if he did that, it would still happen. And if he deleted them, he wouldn't be able to prevent this.

Because he knew he had to prevent this.

Even if he hadn't managed to before.

* * *

"_Mummy, I don't want you to go," he'd said, curled up in his bed with her. She was reading him a good night story, but he couldn't focus on it when all he could see was screeching and screaming. Her screaming._

"_I'm not going anywhere Sherlock," she said, giving him a kiss on the head._

"_You're going to go away, and never come back," he whimpered, torn between wanting to curl up inside her for comfort, and not wanting to touch her anymore, anything to stop what he was seeing._

"_I will _always _come back," she told him._

_There was no bed time story the next night._

* * *

He wasn't going to let the same thing happen to John as what happened to Mummy.

* * *

He was strangely calm when he realized what he had to do.

(Of course, so were people who'd become resigned to their fate, or were about to commit suicide. He wondered which category he fell into.)

But he'd seen the future John had if Sherlock was in it. (And he meant 'in it' in the vaguest way possible, still existing but completely separate. A presence that could be felt, but never proven, all those flashes you see out of the corner of your eye, but when you turned your head they were gone.) A future that Sherlock caused, both by seeing it and by surviving to it.

So he made sure nothing would be the same, and sent the text.


	4. Chapter 4

When they shook hands, Moriarty was blank.

Too late, Sherlock realized what this meant, recoiling only as he heard the shot ring out.

The pool of blood grew larger under his head.

Dead people didn't have futures.

* * *

Everything was cloudy, but Sherlock realized what he'd have to do.

He phoned John. He was just arriving at the hospital now; in fact, Sherlock could see him from his position on the roof.

The edge of the roof.

Sherlock pleaded and John came back.

* * *

Sherlock stretched his hand out, his voice breaking.

If only he could touch him, to see what the future would bring.

But once he saw it, he couldn't change it. No matter what happened.

He swallowed. In a way, it was good that they couldn't touch. He might not have been able to stop himself had he been able to reach him.

_Goodbye John._

And then he'd done it.

Moriarty was right; falling was just like flying.

But then there was concrete, and little else mattered after that.

* * *

He'd landed awkwardly, and considering he couldn't feel his legs, had broken his spine.

He really didn't want to know what else, but damn his brain, categorizing and sorting, letting him know that his pelvis was broken, maybe a leg or two, not that he could feel them, he was bleeding internally, and had a collapsed lung.

And the head injury.

Considering all those things, he was surprised he was still conscious.

Perhaps the universe was angry he'd screwed with his fate, and was forcing him to face John making his way through the crowd, mumbling something that sounded a lot like 'he's my friend'.

Because his eyes were open, and he couldn't seem to be able to shut them, and then John reached for his wrist, that much he could feel, and Sherlock focused all his remaining energy on seeing just the next few seconds, not knowing what would come after. Not wanting to.

Pain. There was mostly pain.

Hints of anger, terror, sorrow, shame, and even hints of guilt. (Off in this distance, so far away that it could barely be felt, there was... something. Something beyond all that pain for John to feel. Oh. It was _joy._)

But now, there was only pain.

Sherlock wasn't sure if what he was feeling now was his own physical pain, or John's future emotional pain.

But really, did it matter?

Because with the paradox created between a future that he saw himself, alive and well, and a present that seemed impossible to facilitate that, Sherlock had hope that John's life could end better.

Even if he wasn't in it.


End file.
